To pee, or not to pee…

I am on crutches.

A special enforcer on crutches is like a sign from someone that I am destined to be a special enforcer for the rest of my life. You know what I mean? I can’t work on the craft that seriously needs to be perfected – actually, I can’t work out, period. Which means that not only will my fitness level decrease significantly, but this awesome body I have worked oh so hard on is gonna go straight to chunky Heaven.

Chunky Heaven is a place for the chunky people to go and, well, eat (and get more chunky, obviously). Apart from my seemingly long-standing membership with the special enforcer club, it seems as though I also have a lifetime membership with the kangaroo pouch crew. You know, that annoying kangaroo pouch that just kinda sits at the bottom of ones stomach and peeks over to say ‘hey there guys,’ to the world over my jeans or shirt. It’s annoying because this means that I’ll be sitting on my butt and not moving, causing this kangaroo pouch to grow and grow and grow and grow until it’s big enough to fit like, two small baby kangaroos in there instead of just one. Ever since I had the surgery, I’ve been squeezing my abdominal muscles really tight in a desperate hope that those six chocolate cookies I inhaled yesterday night won’t make a home in the pits of my stomach. I also squeeze my butt cheeks really tightly in rhythm (right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek) as another attempt to tighten my buns (mainly because my teammates have deemed me thee loosest booty in the world) – so because I can’t squat, this will have to do. I’ve managed to convince myself that it’s working every time I look into a full-length mirror butt naked, and tell myself that this small hindrance is actually like, a blessing in disguise – right?

Darn these knees – they’re preventing my summer body and frankly, I’m hating it.

Basically, I tore two things in my knees. Nothing to major, like, an ACL or anything, but what I do recall from what the doctor told me is that one of my tears (my cartilage one I believe) is as big as a nickel. I remember this particularly because all I was thinking about was whether or not I could actually hide a real, life-size nickel inside this tear and retrieve it on a day that I really need it. Anyway, it means that since Thursday 15^th of April, I have been in my room doing absolutely nothing. These pain medications make me slip in and out of consciousness at any given time. It’s ridiculous. One minute I’m staring the four walls, and next I’m having dreams about being chased by the rapper Coolio through the mean streets of Holland because I apparently stole his car; (and while I wanna blame the meds, I kinda can’t because, before them, I had a dream I was a chicken and reproduced with pig, and had these little pickens and, some died, then I ran way – so I kinda can’t fault my weirdness on medication). Regardless, yesterday was probably the first time I turned on the television and watched anything. Maybe next blog I’ll express how much I now adore ‘Glee’ and how much I’ve decided to let it affect my life; but my the main purpose of this blog was to tell you about my humiliating experience due to my handicapped-ness that occurred this morning.

I sleep naked. Not completely naked, I mean, I cover my down below lady parts with underwear, but apart from there – nothing, (what can I say, I like to be free). Anyway. Since Thursday, peeing has been somewhat of a dilemma. Not that I can’t pee, but more of, well, it’s so annoying having to get up from the bed and grab these annoying crutches (which I’ve already had two painful incidents with), and crutch myself to the bathroom. So. I normally wait until my bladder wants to explode before I hobble to the bathroom and let loose. Anyway. This morning, I wake up and have the desperate urge to urinate. I mean, yeah, all the fluid I’ve obtained is bound to want to escape sooner or later right? So, because I hate these crutches so dearly, I’ve began to master the act of hopping on my good leg to short distances – it’s quicker and though very energy consuming, it ultimately gets the job done. Besides, what bad could really happen right?

Yeah right…wrong!

This morning, as I hopped to the bathroom to relieve myself (and rightfully so, I have every right to release the pressure from my bladder), who greeted me? I dunno who he was, a maintenance guy I guess, fixing something in our common area. So, there I am, mid-hop, boobs flying everywhere because these bad boys are definitely not small, left leg bandaged up and right leg quivering due to all the strain my hopping is doing on the poor thing; in front of a like, fifty year old guy ogling my goodies. He obviously couldn’t multitask ‘cause he stopped, stuttered and stared – then remembered that this isn’t some free peep show and turned around so I could hop into the bathroom. By the time I exited, he had left. No note or anything. I feel like some sort of cheap lady of the night, he didn’t even invite me to dinner, or leave a number to call or anything – sheeeeesh.

Nevertheless, this embarrassing incident will go down in history alongside the time I locked myself out of my room after a shower and had to go to a whole different hall to get a key in nothing but a towel. Anyway, this does mean that I will not be peeing for a pretty long time.

Blah. The bad luck just seems to keep rolling in.

…because everyone is a special enforcer at heart; some just choose to get on the court.

enforcing the special people?

I am a special enforcer

Yeah, a special enforcer. Well at least, that’s what my coach called all the benchwarmers last year; and it being my freshman year, I guess you could say I was proud of that. You know, it almost sounds like a superhero right? And the rare chance I would get on the floor, I would feel like here I was, saving the day. Okay, so granted when I did get on the floor, we would probably be up by like a thousand or so, but still, they wanted my awesome defense to make it even less of a game by shutting down whichever post I was guarding. I knew I was liked, mainly because our fans would scream and holler whenever I was subbed in and, God forbid I got the ball and scored; we’d have to shut the place down.

By the end of the year, I achieved the ‘Special Enforcer of the Year’ award, and though it isn’t recognized with ESPN, it was pretty big within the special enforcers I knew, and that was okay in my books. I didn’t get an award, I didn’t get a plaque, no streamers or balloons, I didn’t even get a friggin’ cake – but, within the special enforcer community around the world, I was thee best one.

That was pretty much my freshman year – plus or minus a few nights I may or may not remember (which I cannot talk about because I promised myself I’d keep this strictly PG rated) – but that was freshman year; simply a blur.

Well, anyway, here I am. The end of my sophomore year, and I’m blogging. Why? Well. Why not? I was watching ‘Julie and Julia’ in a desperate attempt to drown out my suitemates fornication sounds and was instantly intrigued (not with the fornication sounds, with the movie). Not only ‘cause it was about food, my number one favorite pastime, but because, well, she was writing about it and people were enjoying it. Now, personally, I can’t guarantee that my life is more interesting than that of an aspiring chef; but I might as well try right? Not to mention I love to write, and this is a great way to tune out my professors when I am obviously not paying attention in class.

So sit back, relax, and have a kit kat. This could be the most boring and un-updated blog you’ve ever read; or, it could change your lives in ways you’d never imagine.

…because everyone is a special enforcer at heart; some just choose to get on the court.